Moments
by Diana Lucifera
Summary: Moments in time. Thousands of lives entwining once, twice, a billion times in a never-ending story made of moments and thoughts and words no one said. drabbles DracoGinny and many others
1. DracoxGinny: Things Known

**Important Stuff: **I don't own Harry Potter. Obviously. Now that that's out of the way, I'll address the important question: _What's a drabble?_ A drabble is like a mini-one-shot. It's a scene, a moment, a thought expounded. I've been writing these for a while, but now I've decided to put them together in a sort of collection. There you are. Welcome to Shattered Sanity.

--------------

**DracoxGinny: Things Known**

Gray eyes meet brown, silver mingles with red, and she finds herself unable to say _no_. She knows that he's broken, knows she should stop him, but she doesn't. She can't. His skin is too pale, his lips are too soft, and she wants to tell him that it's all right, that the pain will pass, but she can't. She knows it's what he needs to hear, but she can't lie to him. Those gray orbs of his hold so much pain, and she simply sinks into his arms and stays. It's wrong. She knows.

He stands before her now, features harsh once more.

"It won't happen again," He whispers, before turning to leave.

She knows.

--------------

1-25-05


	2. Luna: Bottle Caps

**The Rules of Drabbling: **(1) Grammar doesn't matter. Effect does. (2) A drabble is kind of like a free-style poem. Just let it go. (3) There is no posting schedule. Don't worry, you'll live.

Just so you guys know, there will be some implied sexual content in some of these. Nothing specific, though, and it's not enough to even make this a PG13 fic. Usually, you can just draw your own conclusions (like in Things Known). You have been warned.

---------

**Luna: Bottle Caps**

_Click. Click. Click._

She sits on the damp ground, stringing together bottle caps. She collects them. Every bottle cap from every bottle she drinks in between her visits to this place is tenderly packed away, patiently awaiting the day when it will join the necklace, take its place on the memory string.

_Click. Click. _

It's raining today, but she doesn't mind. Rain makes thing clean, washes all the darkness away. It makes her want to dance and twirl at the thought of being pure again, of finding her innocence. Innocence she lost long ago. Innocence she knows she'll never regain.

_Click. Click. Click._

Life is lonely sometimes. But she doesn't want to remember, doesn't have to, except when she's here. Then it's on her like a stain that nothing, even rain, can wash away. Sometimes, she feels like the only person in the world who's lonely, and she hates to feel alone. But she knows. She knows she is.

_Click. Click._

She's singing now, closing her eyes and trying to remember something bright and glorious. She does remember now, she finds that she can't finish her song through her sobs. Why does she have to remember that? Those things that hurt, why can't they just slip away? Is a memory of happiness too much to ask for?

_Click. Click. Click._

She hates crying, hates the overwhelming sadness of this place. She is a fortress of strength, though most cannot see it. Nothing ever hurts her. Nothing but this. It hurts her so much because, no matter what she does, this is life, this is real. The stone is cold and wet, the ground is thick and dark. As she traces the words written, _Beloved Wife and Mother_, she closes her eyes and pretends that nothing was ever broken, that life is whole once more, and the bottle caps… The bottle caps are all that's real.

"I love you, Mom."

_Click..........__Click.........__Click........._

---------

12/25/05


	3. RonxPansy: The Art of Forgetting

I know, I know. "Novalee! Why don't you write anymore!" I am writing, I assure you. It's really the simple fact that I'm having to write on notebook paper and can't find the time to type it up. Sad, isn't it? I've only had these drabbles since December, you know. I hate to disappoint the hordes of readers for this fic. (Sarcasm doesn't translate well online, but, in case you're wondering, that was it.) Whatever. Anyone who is reading, enjoy! I admit, I am particularly fond of this one.

* * *

**RonxPansy: The Art of Forgetting**

It isn't love or lust or anything in between. It's just two lonely people trying, for a moment, to forget. He loves a girl who's too busy to notice. She loves a boy who's too cold to care. And for tonight, just for tonight, the loneliness is too much to bear. They cling to each other in ways they never imagined, both lonely, desperate souls. For a while, they can forget that he hates her and she despises him and this isn't anything close to real. That, when they wake up tomorrow, everything will be the same. But, for tonight, they can pretend. They can forget.

She smells like raspberries. He smells like cinnamon. The two scents mingle together, two smells that were never meant to mix, and yet, somehow, it works. His fingers wind their way into her hair as her lips trail across his cheek. He mumbles something incoherently as her cold fingers slide across the nape of his neck. For a moment, both pull away, staring at each other in a daze.

This isn't real. This isn't right.

Who cares?

She leans forward, pressing their lips together again. He gladly responds. Without speaking, they've both made a decision. It can't hurt to forget, just this once. Just tonight, they can pretend that it means something. She giggles, he smiles. Both settle in for a lesson in the art of forgetting.

* * *

1-27-05


	4. Neville: The End of Things

Meh. It's not great, but, hey! It's longer! This is actually a one-shot that tied itself up in the first scene and became a drabble. shrug Whatever, I guess. Happy reading!

* * *

**Neville: The End of Things**

Neville had never been so scared in all his life, not during any of his magical misadventures, nor during Fifth Year, as a member of the underground DA. Even that night in the Ministry, when he'd come up against a crowd of deatheaters for the first time, a night that he'd always said to be his most frightening, had he ever felt this sort of terror. Every footstep that pounded on the stone floor as they ran caused his heart to beat faster. Every yell or scream he heard up ahead terrified him so much that he wasn't sure he could go on. He wanted to cry, wanted to run away, wanted _out_. This wasn't right. This wasn't the war he'd signed up for. Everything was going wrong.

And they were going to die.

The corridors were dark, and, looking over the others, he could see that they felt it too, that feeling of overwhelming terror. Somewhere in the crowd, a girl was sobbing softly and the sound bounced off the black stone surrounding them, making it seem as if the very walls were crying out to them. Next to him, he could barely make out the form of Ginny Weasley, whose eyes were shut and whose hands were clasped. Maybe she was praying, Neville thought. Merlin knew they would need all the prayer they could get. The night was calling for blood, and she knew it, as did they all. Tonight, sins had to be atoned for. Sacrificed had to be made. People had to die.

"Well," he whispered, hoping he sounded collected. "We're going in. On the count of three, everyone."

_"One."_

Ginny opened her eyes and readied herself. The sobbing girl in the back quieted. Luna Lovegood put her hair up, humming sadly to herself, _Amazing Grace_, he thought.

_"Two."_

Hannah Abbott kissed Ernie Macmillan on the cheek, while Justin Finch-Fletchley crossed himself silently. Luna stopped humming, whispering a quiet "Amen". And as he clenched his eyes shut, preparing to throw the doors open, Neville thought that maybe, just maybe, he had been wrong. Maybe they should retreat, save themselves and leave the others to deal with the battle alone. Maybe they could run, and maybe they could live, and maybe, maybe he would be able to rewind it all and pretend... pretend...

No. He was a Gryffindor, and right now, bravery was what he needed. This was war. What was that they said? "In war, only cowards survive," wasn't it? What was that book? It'd been his favorite once. He'd loved the way it had painted war. So "real", he'd thought. Of course, he knew now how ridiculous the whole thing was. He'd lived through it, and war wasn't as glamorous as everyone made it out to be. Still, it _had_ been a wonderful book. Now, what was it that had happened in the end? Oh, yes. He remembered.

_"Three."_

* * *

4-4-05


	5. DracoxGinny: Another Sunday Afternoon

Another Draco/Ginny, to celebrate my listing SS as a D/G fic. It was formerly NP, and you know what that means. Yup. It means no one can find it. Since Draco/Ginny is my OTP and therefore, probably, the couple I'll end up drabbling most, I thought it'd be okay.For those D/Gs just joining up (because I'm sure you're out there), hullo and welcome! I hope you enjoy the fic, even if it's not _all_ Draco/Ginny. Ta!

**

* * *

**

**DracoxGinny: Just Another Sunday **

She likes to watch him sleep. It's a silly, little habit, she knows. Sometimes, when she's sitting there, she feels like a stalker. Other times she feel like she means something. If she were his girlfriend, she could do this all she wants. It would seem natural. But she's not his girlfriend, and she doesn't ever expect to be. Because of that fact, for Ginny, it all seems so... _silly_. Silly to pretend that it matters, to be so enthralled with someone who hates her. Still, it isn't like that's stopping her.

She'd stumbled across him quite by accident, quite a while ago. She'd simply been walking along, enjoying the feeling of warm sun beating down on her bare feet and arms, reveling in the slight breeze had made it's way through her hair. And then she'd found him. It had struck her as terribly out of character, at the time. Of course, now, finding Draco Malfoy sunning in a clearing wasn't strange at all. She supposed he had come out there to study, because of the text book lying on his chest or because he didn't seem the type to enjoy a Sunday afternoon nap, she didn't know. And so she'd slipped away, content to let him catch up on some much needed sleep.

And that had been that. Or it should have been, would have been, if she'd just stayed away. If she hadn't come back, this wouldn't have become a habit. She really shouldn't do this, after all, she told herself. This whole thing was incredibly silly. But that's what she always thinks. And somehow, no matter how hard she tries, she ends up back here, curled up in a clearing and watching his chest fall up and down. She wonders what the allure is? Maybe it's because he does like terribly attractive like this, lying on the ground with robes discarded, hair slightly disheveled. Or maybe she just likes seeing him with his guard down. This is the only time she ever sees him with the walls down, defenseless. He looks so much younger when he's asleep, so very tired and lost.

She scoots closer, enjoying sitting next to him, pretending that there's something to this. It isn't as if she loves him. She doesn't, really. But when it's like this, everything changes. She can sit here and think, about him, about herself, everything. Maybe he chose this spot for the same reason. She doubts she'll ever get the chance to ask. After all, he won't ever know about all this. How could he? It isn't as if she plans on telling him about all this.

A piece of his hair's fallen into his eyes again, and she wants more than anything to reach out and brush it away. Her gaze falls on the rest of his face. She is always surprised at how very, very pale he is. How does he lie out here all afternoon and not get sunburned? She unconsciously leans in, trying to remember why she can't, wondering if his skin could possibly be as soft as it looks. Why did everything have to be so complicated? If she likes him, shouldn't she at least be given a chance? It's really so terribly unfair, falling for him. She wishes she could help it. This sort of feeling is incredibly strange, when it's directed at him. This sort of tenderness... is so...

Without even knowing she's doing it, Ginny finds herself leaning over him, softly brushing away that bothersome piece of hair, trailing her fingers across his skin. Suddenly she realizes what she's doing. Gasping, she looks down and finds herself staring into gray eyes, reflecting obvious amusement.

"Well, g'morning, Weasley."

* * *

_4/12/05_


End file.
